"Madame," said Sanson, "this does not concern me."
"However, I thought—notwithstanding—"
"Oh, I get nothing," replied the executioner; "the clothes, the jewels—unless formally made over to me—all go to La Salpêtrière, and are allotted to the poor of the hospital. The Committee of Public Safety has so arranged these things."
"But, sir," persisted Marie Antoinette, "may I at least depend upon this packet being forwarded to my children?"
Sanson remained silent.
"I will endeavor to send it," said Gilbert.
The prisoner cast upon him a look of deep gratitude.
"I came," said Sanson, "to cut off your hair; but since you have done so, I can, if you wish it, leave you for a moment alone."
"I entreat you to do so, sir. I wish to collect my scattered thoughts, and offer up a prayer."
Sanson bowed and retired, when the queen once more found herself in solitude. While the condemned knelt on a low chair which served her as a prie-dieu, a scene no less terrible was passing in the parsonage of the small church of Saint Landry, in the city. The curé had just got up; the old housekeeper had prepared the humble morning meal, when a loud summons at the gate was heard. Even in our day, an unexpected visit to a clergyman is in general the precursor of some serious event,— either a baptism, a marriage "in extremis," or a last confession; but at this epoch the visit of a stranger announced some matter of far graver import. Indeed, at this period the priest was no longer the mandatary of God, but rendered his account to man.